


Since That Day, I Masquerade

by Illuminahsti



Series: From Eden [1]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Canon Compliant, Eventual Happy Ending, Other, POV Peter, Post-Episode: s01e18 Juno Steel and the Final Resting Place, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, abuse of line breaks, peter nureyev's tendency to dissociate, probably a lot of knives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-07-25 05:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16190897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illuminahsti/pseuds/Illuminahsti
Summary: When Peter wakes up, he is alone.It is exactly what he deserved.





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The title comes from George Ezra's "It's Just My Skin" because it's a painfully Peter Nureyev song
> 
> 2\. So far, this is a massive angst fest/character study but it will grow a plot 
> 
> 3\. I'm sticking with a T rating because I don't usually write explicit stuff but we'll see.

When Peter wakes up, he is alone.  
He experiences a split second of searing pain before he realizes: that can’t be right.

* * *

When Peter wakes up, Juno is in the bathroom. The shower isn’t running, so he must be tending to one of his myriad bandages. Peter should go help him, but every inch of his body aches and the bed is soft.  
Time passes.

* * *

When Peter wakes up, Juno has gone downstairs to the hotel restaurant. They could have called room service, but Juno is the type to put himself through hell rather than ask for help.  
It’s sweet of him to sneak out for breakfast without waking Peter. Peter smiles into the crisp hotel pillow and conjures up the phantom smell of coffee. He has a few more minutes to sleep, while he waits, and he is still so tired.

* * *

When Peter wakes up, Juno is gone.  
Peter has slept his fill, and he is unable to stay in the soft, cold bed any longer.  
He gathers his clothes—the change he had brought with him. The white scrubs that Miasma’s assistants wore go in the trash. Juno’s clothes and antibiotics and painkillers are all gone. There wasn’t much left of Juno’s clothes after weeks in that cell, but he had gathered up every scrap when he left.  
Peter can see him, wrapped in that coat that had survived against all odds, barely the worse for wear. There is blood on the collar and on the shirt, and neither of them had made the time to clean them last night.  
He should have bought new clothes while Juno was in the OR, but he hadn’t been able to leave the little white waiting room. Not when—  
He packs his bag, pulls out a burner phone, calls a shuttle.  
He calls room service for breakfast.  
He takes a deep breath.

He closes his eyes, reopens them.

* * *

Octavius Green has a connection on Venus. The connection has offered a sizable bounty on a post-neo-rococo painting in a museum on old earth.  
Juno loves abstract art. 

_He always knew he would one day take on a project that would destroy him. He never expected it would be a personal one._

He closes his eyes, reopens them. 

* * *

The people of Io are formulating a revolution. It would be easy for Trinity Papillon to slip in and liberate security codes for the tender dissidents.

 _Juno would be so proud of him for helping the helpless. Standing up to the big, mean, world._

He closes his eyes, reopens them.

* * *

Arthur Little is still in love with Juno Steel. 

_Of course Juno left him. He attracts danger like honey attracts flies. No reasonable lady would stay with a man like him._

He closes his eyes, reopens them.

* * *

Elias Hill is paranoid, expressive, prone to tears. 

_Of course Juno left him. Juno looked into his mind and saw the violence he was capable of and knew that he was too dark for the light-bringer that is Juno Steel._

He closes his eyes, reopens them.

* * *

Juno Steel is in Peter Nureyev’s blood. He is in every inhale of his shredded lungs, he is the stone in his stomach, he is the phantom heat under his hands. 

There is no escaping Juno Steel. 

He closes his eyes, reopens them.

* * *

Lazarus Quill spent three months on Dione, investigating the opal mines. He could easily return there and restart the con. Opals are valuable, and since his last year’s work for Miasma netted no pay, he could use the money. 

_Of course Juno left him. He was held together by bandages and spite and in no shape for shuttle transport between worlds._

If this heist goes well, he can return to Mars and pay off Juno’s medical bills. They checked in under throwaway identities, but paying bills on time would matter to Juno.  
Or maybe it wouldn’t. Juno doesn’t have much of a stomach for authority in any context. 

Juno needs time to heal. He needs rest in his own bed. He’ll be ready to go by the time Lazarus returns.


	2. Week One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: minor non-explicit drug use

Peter’s life is a cycle of frenetic action and intense rest, the oscillations predictable and necessary to his travels. He can and often does stay awake for twenty four hours, and he will be as alert at the end of the period as he was at the beginning.   
It is the life of a celebrity, of a star out among the stars, beautiful and gracious and mysterious. He is on, always, gathering information and ingratiating himself with the people he will soon rob. He will spend a day investigating a manor house, then spend all night at their party, and then work until dawn. He is no stranger to caffeine, to amphetamines of all kinds, if they are necessary. He burns his candle at both ends, so to speak.   
And then he hibernates.   
A twenty four hour sleep is not unusual for him, and it is eagerly anticipated. He counters his uppers with downers, he disappears into a sleeping chamber on an interplanetary transport, and he reemerges a new man.   
This day, he wants to sleep for more reasons than usual.   
This day, somewhere between Mars and Saturn, he wakes in a cold sweat.   
This is unusual. Peter Nureyev does not dream.   
Lazarus Quill is too confident, too self-centered to give space to the regret that currently fills his chest and weighs his limbs like icy metal, like steel—  
Peter Nureyev flees from that thought.  
Even Lazarus Quill cannot shake the memories. 

He wakes again, what feels like mere minutes later, with a scream ripping through his esophagus. He has to be alert. He has to look at the card, really picture the card, or Juno, his Juno—  
His detective is safe on Mars, waiting for his return. His detective needs him safe, and alert, and well rested.   
He creeps to his luggage and finds his bottle of prescription sleeping pills.   
Something cold crawls up his back; it is something that feels suspiciously like a translucent tentacle. He can’t let his guard down for even a minute. It is not just his life at risk anymore.

* * *

Lazarus Quill adds another trait to his arsenal. He is a nosy man.  
He joins in at quiz nights, and first class dinners, and the card tables. He indulges in gossip with the women who play bridge. He carries their luggage and fetches them coffee and charms them all.   
Surrounded by a group of retirees on a vacation to Dione, he fills his every waking hour with meaningless chatter.   
For a few minutes out of those hours, he is not pretending when he shows interest in their lives. For a few minutes, his mind is filled with other people’s problems.   
For a few brief, bright moments he actually is thinking of something besides how much he misses his detective. 

Lazarus takes Maybella Peak to her room, carefully steering her through the low gravity hallways. Space travel may be good for her arthritis, but she trades that for trouble with her balance. When he stops at her door, she tightens her grip on his forearm.   
“Now, Lazarus, you’ve been so good to me. I wish I could do something for you.”   
“You don’t have to do anything, dear. I’m happy to help.”   
“Tell me you’ve got a nice person to look out for you, too. It would do an old lady good to know it.”   
His smile is genuine. “I do. I’m going home to him as soon as my business trip is over.”   
“That’s good, honey. Make sure he knows how lucky he is.”   
“I’ll tell him you said so.”

* * *

Peter bolts awake with a single thought cutting through the tangle of nightmares.   
When he woke that morning in the hotel room, he had not been surprised.   
He had known that Juno would leave.   
Somewhere, deep in the part of him that protected his soul without conscious thought, he had been making contingency plans since the first moment Miasma seized them. First, in case Juno had died at her hand, in case Juno had died by way of the bomb.   
And when Juno had survived, even while Peter was happy in a way he couldn’t remember ever being happy, he had been planning for the moment when Juno realized that he was to blame for all of the pain, and fear, and loss they had both suffered.   
Even in his most optimistic heart, he had known Juno would not stay with the sick, sucking vortex that is Peter Nureyev. 

For the rest of the trip, Peter strangles this knowledge with a medical and dreamless sleep.


	3. Month One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lazarus Quill loves Juno with every fiber of his miserly heart.

Gemstones are not Lazarus Quill’s area of business. They are his passion.  
He wears crisp business suits in maroons and emerald shades, and he sets them off with brilliant jewels that draw the eye to his taste.  
“Let the stone shine on its own,” he says to himself, as he combs his hair in the mirror and slides a diamond cuff on his ear.  
He clips his tie with a flat band of matching diamond, and then adds a ruby bombe ring in the same maroon as his suit.  
His smile is predatory.  
No, his smile is flirtatious.  
No. His smile is open. He has no secrets. 

He looks down at his hands. Something is missing.  
He can’t leave the house without a symbol of his Juno, and Lazarus knows and loves the old tradition of wedding rings. He adds a simple platinum band to his ensemble. It’s the sort of thing even Juno would admire, if they had had the time to exchange tokens before he went gallivanting off world. He’ll have to bring one home with him. 

The receptionist of the opal mines remembers him. They smile warmly and book Lazarus an appointment.  
Lazarus was sure to leave on good terms, even if they had been abrupt.  
Paisley Helios, CEO, smiles too, when Lazarus finally makes it to her office. It would be hard not to smile when thinking about the trade deal the Mercurian Gem Co. had offered her.  
Helios offers him wine, and a seat, and settles in. Her eyes say business, but her mouth makes small talk.  
“And how is your wife, Mr. Quill?”  
“Much better, thank you. The doctors on Mercury were quite attentive.”  
“I’m glad to hear it. I hated to think of you worrying after her while you were stuck here on business.”  
Helios may actually be genuine. Then again, you didn’t become CEO of a moon-wide drilling company by possessing traits like empathy.  
“My wife knows how important my work is to me.” Lazarus puts his wine glass down. “I apologize again for leaving on such short notice. I hope we can continue where I left off?” Just like that, they are back to business. 

* * *

Lazarus is given a crate of opals on credit by Helios. They are the first shipment to the Mercurian Gem Co, and she tells Lazarus that the next will be sent in six months’ time. By then, if she’s diligent, she will have discovered that the warehouse address does not exist, and neither did Lazarus Quill. 

The alias works well enough to charter a shuttle to the Phoenix corp, and by the time he gets there he will no longer need a name. Phoenix corp deals in all manner of things, and the shuttle coordinates change often. Lazarus is known there only by a serial number, randomly generated and randomly changed.  
They do not ask questions, they simply take the opals and pay agent 1758-38HI-Q18 enough to keep him comfortable for a few months of travel. 

Agent 1758-38HI-Q18 has no personality. He can book a shuttle to Mars. He can deposit a universal credit drive into an interplanetary bank account. He cannot interact with anyone on the shuttle, because small talk requires a motivation.  
Lazarus Quill will do, for a while, but could become a wanted man at any point. His usefulness is wearing thin. To preserve himself for a few more days, he stays to his room and tells no one his name. 

Lazarus loves Juno with every fiber of his miserly heart. To return to Juno is what propels him forward. It shouldn’t be, because he is a businessman, and good business comes first, but he cannot help it. He spins the platinum band between his fingers and stares at the ceiling of his bunk and thinks about what it will be like to be home.  
The creds in his bank account will keep his lady safe and happy for a long while. He can fix up his apartment with them. He can get new clothes too, maybe some with a better fit. Maybe some with built in armor. That trench coat may be resistant to lasers, but Lazarus worries about knives.  
Of course, there are the medical bills to worry about. Maybe a bionic eye to consider, and if not, a glass one.  
They can spend days just being, not running, not working. Maybe they can get takeout and watch Martian streams. Lazarus has heard nice things about them.  
A vacation, to somewhere warm. Venus has nice spas.  
_Juno will not want to leave Mars._  
The Argyre Basin, then. A bit touristy, but relaxing all the same.  
_Juno will not want to leave Hyperion City._  
Surely, a short vacation.  
_Juno will not want to leave Hyperion City_ with him. 

Just like that, Lazarus Quill dissolves into a wisp of smoke. 

* * *

What will he do, sweep in on a beam of starlight and whisk Juno away to adventure? He offered that, and Juno refused. Juno walked out that door, unable to face a life with Peter. Peter was a reminder of everything that had been done to Juno, and no amount of _new clothes_ and _spa vacations_ will ever wipe that clean.  
Juno lost an eye, and weeks of time, and nearly his life, because Peter was selfish.  
Because Peter couldn’t resist taking him on that stupid trip to the Oasis Casino. Oh, yes, Juno had certainly been useful. It could be argued invaluable. The truth of the matter was this: Peter had simply wanted him there. Good luck charm indeed.  
The image of Juno, standing between the sliding doors of Miasma’s vault, face covered in blood, was one that would stay in Peter’s mind for the rest of his lonely life.  
Never had he felt so much relief, so much guilt. He had done that.  
He had had the audacity to think they had made it out together.  
It hadn’t been like that at all. For that to happen, they would have had to go into the tomb together, both informed of the risk.  
Instead, he was the villain of the piece. He had gone in and dragged Juno with him.  
He had led Juno like a sacrificial lamb right into Miasma’s hands.  
Juno hadn’t just survived Miasma, he had survived Peter’s selfish, demanding love, Peter’s fear of facing Miasma alone, Peter’s conviction that they were better together when the reality was the opposite. 

Peter cannot return to Mars. It would be cruel to do so. He would he nothing but a reminder of what he put Juno through, a demand that Juno confront his trauma at Peter’s convenience.  
Peter feels sick that he ever considered it. Sick, and selfish. 

He must leave Juno Steel behind. He must create an identity that does not remember him, does not long for him. 

Juno Steel is not for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey if you want to yell about this or any sad Peter thoughts I'm at alecjmarsh on tumblr!


	4. Year One - I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He rarely smiles, and when he does it cuts like a knife as sharp as his teeth.

Fury sits in Alcyon Sultano’s blood like ice. Someone in his past used him, and left him, and he has not forgotten. He feeds the bitter pit in his stomach and lives on spite alone. He moves like a panther, with a shifting flex of his shoulders that might be alluring if it did not promise violence. He rarely smiles, and when he does it cuts like a knife as sharp as his teeth.  
He has no reputation, but he does not need one. The warring factions of the outer rim knows a skilled assassin when the see one.  
Sultano slinks into the office of Cassius Kai like a shadow too black for light to penetrate. Only his platinum rings and nails gleam, polished and deadly.  
“I hear you’re looking to hire,” he says. His voice has a whine to it. It is not beautiful. Kai sits up straighter, and Sultano can tell it is an unconscious gesture.  
“You heard wrong,” Kai says. “I got all the trouble I need around here.”  
“Oh, I’m no trouble.”  
Kai scoffs and lights a cigar. Sultano admires his dedication to his image. “All your type are trouble. Now get outta here, I got a business to run. Who let you in, anyway?”  
“I let myself in.” Sultano flows into the seat in front of Kai’s desk. “I would advise getting new guards. Their rotation is not... attentive.”  
Kai looks at him, really looks. Hopefully, he likes what he sees. “I guess you want the job?”  
“Oh, no. Guarding some two bit mob boss is a bit below my pay grade.”  
Kai grimaces and presses a button on his desk. “Yeah, I got some sorta mercenary in here making jokes. Clear him out for me.”  
There is a knife in Sultano’s hand that wasn’t there a moment ago. He twirls it absently between his fingers. “Mr Kai, I advise you turn that intercom off and listen to me. Your grip on Trimurti is waning, and you know it. Your men are reconsidering their support. A crime lord who can’t control the criminals on his planet?”  
“I—“  
The knife stops twirling and is held tight between dextrous fingers. “Let me wipe out a few rebels for you and sow a little fear. I’m sure you can tell how capable I am.”  
Kai’s gaze is fixed on the knife. The blade is serrated, the same platinum as Sultano’s nails. It may require more force to yield than a plasma blade, but it leaves a more impressive crime scene behind.  
“What’s your rate?”  
“A week’s profit for every rebel head I bring you.”  
Kai laughs out loud at that. “You’re out of your damn mind. Those little shits breed like rats.”  
“Rats you have failed to exterminate, I can’t help but observe.”  
“Get out of my office,” Kai says.  
Sultano smiles. Kai flinches.  
“Look,” he placates. “I got things under control here. I appreciate your offer, but I don’t need a third party contractor.”  
“I would advise you to reconsider that,” Sultano purrs.  
“Are you threatening me?” Kai growls.  
“Should I be?”  
Kai reaches for the intercom again. He is dead before his finger touches the button.  
Alcyon Sultano stands silently and sheaths his knife back into the hidden pocket it came from. He checks his makeup in a compact mirror and wipes a few drops of blood from his face. The matte black of his jacket hides the splatter on his clothes.  
He snaps the mirror shut with a decisive click. Kai’s acquiescence would have been helpful, but it is not necessary.

* * *

It takes Sultano a week to find the rebel hideout. They have hidden themselves well, and their supporters are loyal. Finally, his message makes it to the center of the web, and a return message makes it back.  
They are housed on the 42nd floor of an office building, the windows papered over with advertisements. He picks the lock—perhaps unnecessarily, but he likes the touch.  
When the door swings open, he is met with five very large guns pointed at him.  
A laugh burbles out before Peter Nureyev is put away. The young and righteous are always so flamboyant.  
“There’s no need for that,” he says. The nasal drawl is back in his voice—a careful disinterest. “I didn’t come to fight.”  
Someone laughs harshly. “Doesn’t matter. We might need to kill you anyway.”  
“I brought something that might be useful to you.”  
The person who had laughed stands. They must be the leader—Wren Huntington. Their reputation precedes them, and the knowledge of their scar, which stretches from their cheekbone to their chin and twists their mouth into a permanent sneer. “Oh yeah?” They say. “What is it?”  
“Information. It’s in my satchel.”  
Wren’s gun is as long as Sultano’s arm, and it is now pointed right at his face. Sultano raises his arms just enough that it isn’t technically insolent.  
“Wolfe, check his bag,” Wren commands.  
A small girl with shaggy grey hair opens his satchel and draws the yellow envelope out. She shuffles through the papers.  
“Are these receipts?”  
“From every one of Cassian Kai’s suppliers, yes. I heard you were trying to end the drug trade on the planet.”  
“ _I_ heard Cassian Kai is dead.”  
“You heard right. I find that men are easier to rob when they’re dead.”  
Wren studies him, considers this information. “How much will this cost?” they ask.  
“These are a gift,” Sultano assures. “A good faith gesture, let us say. And in exchange, I want a good faith gesture from you.”  
Wren tilts their chin, a clear “I’m listening” gesture.  
“I’m invested in your cause, and I want to get my hands dirty.” Sultano flexes his fingers, and the platinum nails gleam in the light.  
Wren notices, and their lips twitch into a smile. “I find that unlikely Mr—?”  
“Alcyon Sultano. Indulge me the metaphor and let me work for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news! I think this is all written so there won't be a long wait for the next chapter :)  
> Come yell at me at alecjmarsh on twitter.


	5. Year One - II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they laugh, their green eyes light up and for just a moment, Sultano can see what optimism looks like.

Wren has a body worn down to lean muscle by the harsh city winds and a tendency to brood. They spend their hours inspecting weapons, loading weapons, patrolling their building with their rifle clutched in scarred hands.  
When they laugh, their green eyes light up and for just a moment, Sultano can see what optimism looks like. Their scars tell a story of anger, and of fierce love. It is the sort of story a man would feel honored to know.  
When they fuck, it is with a desperate, grasping sort of compassion. Callouses from a lifetime holding weapons catch against Sultano’s skin, but their hands are gentle.  
Neither of them talks, during or after. 

The third time it happens, Wren breaks their silence.  
“Who were they?”  
Sultano rouses himself from near sleep. “Who was who?”  
“The person you’re thinking about.”  
“I’m not—” Sultano’s protests die on his lips. He knows that Wren is thinking of someone else, too. They gasp the shape of a name sometimes, lips remembering but lungs unable to make the sound.  
“It doesn’t matter,” he says finally. His voice is distant. “He’s gone for good.”  
Wren nods. They aren’t looking at him. “She... went into one of Kai’s dungeons and never came out.”  
Sultano feels cold. A part of him remembers a dungeon.  
“If I could—” Wren’s voice breaks. “Doesn’t matter.”  
Wren needs to talk, and Sultano needs to experience someone else’s thoughts. “Is that how you got that scar?” he asks.  
“No, that was....a different fight.” Wren is quiet for so long the Sultano thinks they have fallen asleep. When they speak again, their voice is small. “I didn’t even get far enough to risk a scar. Couldn’t find the fortress until after Kai had—”  
It is achingly tender, the way this hardened revolutionary cannot say the word.  
“Killed her?” Sultano finishes the sentence for them.  
“Yeah,” Wren answers. After another silence, they say, “she doesn’t feel...how did you say it? Gone for good. Sometimes the front door opens and I’m sure it will be her walking in.”  
“That will fade,” Sultano assures.  
“I like feeling her with me,” Wren says, and they sound sure. “It makes me want to be a better person.... the kind of person she was.”  
Sultano cannot speak. He does not tell Wren that eventually, the reminders will destroy them. He offers no details of his own past and chooses not to examine the way their griefs are not parallel. It is enough, in the dark, to share this moment of loss. 

That is the last night they sleep together. Sultano doesn’t know if it is his decision or Wren’s, but they seem to both know not to offer. Sultano cannot feel rejected; he knew which feelings did not exist between them when they started their affair.

* * *

The rebels are angry, and they are organized, and they have no plan for what they will do when Kai’s group falls.  
Sultano asks one night, when impatience has made him dangerous. His voice is as bland as always.  
Wolfe shows the pointed teeth that inspired her name and says, “We’ll move on to the government.”  
“Why didn’t you start with them?”  
“Taking out the government will create a power vacuum,” Wren explains in their practical tone. They don’t look up from the pirated laser cartridge they are repairing. “Kai’s gang is too strong, they’ll beat us to the position. If they don’t, another drug cartel will. We gotta clean them out first.”  
Sultano considers this. “Kai is dead,” he states unnecessarily. “His gang is in chaos. Wren, let me borrow one of your blasters.”  
Wren raises an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with the arsenal in that bag of yours?”  
“Your guns are unique, and I would hate for someone else to take credit for your work.”  
Wren studies him. Their eyes are a piercing green, unnaturally bright. It makes Sultano feel seen in a way that makes him violent.  
Wren slides the cartridge into their pistol and stands. They jerk their chin in the direction of their office, and Sultano follows them.  
When the two of them are alone, Wren says, “You can’t be planning on going in there alone.”  
“I have done it before.”  
“They’ll know you this time.”  
“Yes, but I know their hideout. I know every secret passage and every guard rotation. I did not waste my opportunity last time.”  
“It’s too dangerous.”  
Sultano raises a perfect black eyebrow and smiles. “I am not yours to command, little bird. Do not forget it.”  
Wren takes a step back. They swallow compulsively, but they keep their eyes on Sultano’s face.  
“If you’re not one of my soldiers, I don’t want you taking my gun,” they say. “You can do whatever you want to Kai’s gang, and I will be grateful for it, but I don’t want it pinned on us. We’re freedom fighters, not assassins.”  
Sultano likes Wren, more than he should. He likes Wren enough to make a promise. “When I am done, I will leave the planet. You will never have to reckon with what I plan to do.”  
Wren nods. “I think that’s for the best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We know Peter's deep in character when he doesn't talk during sex


	6. Year One - III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the split second before the stun blast hits him, he understands Juno perfectly.

Kai’s office building is a labyrinth, but one Sultano has spent hours memorizing. He winds his way through service tunnels and between guards.   
He finds Kai’s replacement and dispatches her with a savage pleasure. When he turns, three guards stand at the door. They take more time, and they give Sultano a torn sleeve for his trouble. Once of them gets a comms alert out before Sultano buries a knife in his chest.   
After that, the building is a seething mass of danger. 

This is who Sultano is. He kills because he likes it, relishes the way the flesh gives under his knife, feeds on the thrill of power crackling up his spine.   
He does not kill for a cause.   
_He does not—_  
Pain from a laser burn radiates through his hip; any higher and it could have been lethal. He whips around and throws a blade into his attacker’s throat.   
He fumbles with blood-slick fingers for the gun at his belt as more footsteps thunder up the hallway. His grip is unsteady on the gun, and he knows any slip will make the shot go wide. He won’t get out.  
He turns and runs, takes a left into a back hallway, hurtles down stairs so fast that only his grip on the bannister stops him from falling.   
He bursts through a door into a ground floor kitchen.   
Only one person stands there, a man nearly Sultano’s height and only a little broader. Sultano knows what to do: kill this man and take his clothes, get rid of this persona, and find a new, less memorable one.   
He raises his gun.   
The man sucks in a breath. His wide eyes dart between the barrel of the blaster and the blood splattered across Sultano’s face. His mouth forms a silent plea.   
A voice that is not his, a furious, alcohol-roughened voice snaps, _"He’s just doing his job!"_   
Yes, and so is Sultano.   
_So is Sultano._  
The moment lasts a fraction of a second that feels like an hour of considerations.   
He can continue to be Alcyon Sultano, who has no one and nothing to live for.   
He can be Peter Nureyev again, who has no one and nothing to live for and a voice in his head pleading with him to be a better man.   
After months of black shadows and platinum violence, that warm, whiskey-brown voice is a fire in his blood.   
He lowers his gun. “I was never here,” he hisses.   
The other man nods.   
Peter runs past him, around the appliances and out into the lobby as a dozen goons come in the main door. He hears more spill into the kitchen behind him.   
He always knew this would be how it ended: Peter Nureyev, a knife in one hand and a doomed cause in his heart, with no one at his side. He was hoping for this when he entered the building, he realizes. If he saves Wren, saves these rebels’ souls, maybe he can make up for a little bit of the trauma he has caused.   
Peter Nureyev, noble revolutionary, standing up against the big mean world. Juno Steel would be proud.   
He squeezes off a shot.   
“Keep him alive,” someone orders. “Shooting’s too good for him.”   
The fear that shoots through him is more than a fear of torture. It is a fear of living past this moment of reckless adrenaline and returning to a lonely universe. In the split second before the stun blast hits him, he understands Juno perfectly.

* * *

When he wakes, he is tied to a chair. For a moment, he is no one. Then, he is Sultano again, as he has been for months. He is there, waiting for when whichever goon is in the room realizes that he is awake.   
Armor in place, Peter goes to pieces.

He has always known: it is easier to be alone when it is a path you have chosen yourself.   
It is easier to ignore your past if you wipe all trace of it from your life.   
It is easier to die if you pretend you do it for a cause.   
He knows now: Juno also understood each of these points. 

He also knows this: he wants to tell Juno that he understands.   
He wants this more than he has ever wanted anything in his entire fractured existence. He, Peter Nureyev, a master thief who has made a career of coveting and taking and hiding and lying, wants none of those things in this moment. He wants only to see, and be seen.  
On that single night they shared, Juno had shown him that to be known was not always to be in danger. It is a feeling that could replace every other affirmation in the universe. And oh, Juno has hurt him in every day since that moment, and still there is nowhere else he would rather be than by his side. He will do whatever it takes to get there; he will gladly grovel and worship if that is what it takes. 

The gangster recognizes that Peter is awake, and jabs a rifle barrel into his chest. Peter tilts his head up, smiles his dangerous smile.   
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Alcyon Sultano purrs. “I just remembered that I have somewhere to be.”   
“You better stay right here,” the man spits. “You’re gonna pay for what you did.”   
He takes stock of the room. Three men, one exit. Zip ties on his wrists. Keep the men talking.   
“I only did what I was paid to do.”   
That gets a reaction. “Who paid you?” the man demands.   
He doesn’t answer. He is too busy easing the box cutter out of his sleeve and between his fingers.   
“Answer me!” The barrel of the gun slams into Sultano’s cheek. Sultano doesn’t yell. He grits his teeth and moved the box cutter a little further.   
It clicks on and severs his ties in one movement. After that it is only a matter of dispatching the remaining gangsters. It is messy, and violent, and fast. All the joy has gone out of it, and he is only working to an end, to being free.   
He is out on the street at last, taking gasps of air not polluted with the remains of Sultano’s work. His debts to Wren’s group of revolutionaries are paid, and Alcyon Sultano is no longer needed.

* * *

He is Peter Nureyev again. He is not a good man, but he is a man who can love. And he is selfish, and there is only one thing he wants. He knows he may not get it, but there is no life worth living if he doesn’t try. He can continue forward, into a cold and unfeeling universe, or he can spend every second left to him begging for Juno’s forgiveness.   
He strips off bloody clothes, strips off resentment, strips off guilt, and goes into the stars to find his detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is over! I did something I said I would never do, which is post something serially without finishing a draft first, and I am so glad I did. I know this might not be where everyone expected it to end, but as this was a character study for Peter, it felt like the right place to conclude. 
> 
> I want to thank everyone who left comments and kudos on my little story. I cannot express how encouraging and motivating you all have been. Special shout out to the Penumbra Bang Discord, you guys are angels. Thank you also to Briwhosaysni and ernmark, whose meta inspired this piece. 
> 
> If you're looking for some songs to go with this piece, here are the pieces I listened to on loop while writing:   
> It's just my skin / George Ezra  
> Blackest Day / Lana Del Rey   
> Arsonists Lullaby / Hozier   
> Shrike / Hozier
> 
> Please leave comments here or come talk to me on tumblr at alecjmarsh!


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